My heart is a radio telescope,
a silver bowl on a silent plain
cocked so to hear stars, open
as conjecture and pulsing welcome.
I’m the dark of the moon, snug
as a government grant, wrapped
in your beaming crescent. A sure
hypothesis is our stellar beauty, bodies
waxing gratitude, backed with no-
strings benefaction. The logic
of orbits makes me dizzy. You
chart the spins and give me credit.
Kim Suttell lives in New York City and can’t decide if her favorite tree is chestnut or linden. Some of her poems reside in Right Hand Pointing, Cleaver Magazine, The Cortland Review and other journals. Please visit them at http://page48.weebly.com.